Starlight [h.s]

05

Harry

"I did not fucking agree to this, Huxley!"

"Harry! Language!" Mum scolds from beside me, knocking her elbow into mine.

I'm staring down my younger brother sat opposite me with such contempt the whole fucking diner might as well set ablaze. All he's doing is smizing back at me, his bright blue eyes practically begging for bruises around them.

"Mum, your idiot son has impersonated me!" I pick up a chip and fling it smack dab in the middle of Huxley's forehead.

"It's called saving your life, dipshit!" Huxley snatches a tissue from the wad on the table and grimaces as he wipes away the grease stain.

"Boys," mum sighs. "Please stop acting more childish than the actual children here."

She makes a good point. Beau is sat on my lap, hunched over the table happily colouring away with restaurant crayons. Elodie is sat on mum's lap doing the same thing.

"It's a load of shit, though." I scowl, looking out of the diner window.

"What have you done this time, Huxley?" Mum queries with exhaustion.

My brother flashes his mega-watt smile. "I was going through Harry's email inbox since, you know, he's incapable of doing that himself and someone has to do it. I saw an email from his manager mentioning how they should ask a respectable magazine to document his return back to music. His manager suggested Pitchfork, Billboard, NME and Rolling Stone. Pitchfork hate Harry, Billboard have a general aversion to British people, and NME are not mainstream enough. Leaving the best til last, Rolling Stone."

I bite the inside of my cheek with flaring aggravation. I can't believe he has done this without consulting me first.

"So, I responded to the email as Harry, agreeing to the Rolling Stone cover story. He would've never done it otherwise, and this is strategic for his career."

I snap my fingers, pointing at him. "What you've done is illegal, Hux."

Huxley holds his wrists together with a faux pout. "Arrest me then, police officer."

"Oh, shut the fu—"

"That sounds like a lovely idea, Harry." Mum chirps. That's no surprise; she is pro anything to do with my musical career.

I pull a hand through my long hair. "I have no time or desire to be trailed around by a stranger having my every move documented. Plus, with the twins, it is just impossible."

Which is how I really see it. I hate journalists and the press because they are invasive, they pry and they misconstrue everything. There's a reason I have always turned down interviews. I say I merely enjoy a song and it somehow ends up twisted in the papers that I'm a homewrecking man-whore. The prospect of being actively followed by one of those vultures is nothing short of a waking nightmare.

Then, working on the album with the twins is going to be hard enough. The last thing I need is a journalist noting down how shit of a father I am and exposing it to the people who are waiting for me to fuck up. I don't want my children anywhere near the mess that is the media, and my brother has completely disregarded that.

There are a lot of things I not only don't want, but can't let get out to the press.

"I've just graduated, genius. I told you, I'll help out with the twins if you're worried about them." Huxley shrugs.

"Because you can't find a job," I snip back thoughtlessly, a little too cruel.

My brother is only a year younger than me, but we have led very different lives. While I was doing the music thing and then crashed to a halt to raise Beau and Elodie, Huxley was at university studying business management. Now he thinks of himself as some sort of business mogul, but I can honestly say, I envy Huxley's life.